One of my pet peeves is the spelling of acronyms as words. There are a few common examples:
SEALs
The US Navy has an elite force knows as the SEALs. They do not have a collection of adorable sea mammals who jump from helicopters and land on beaches in the dead of night even though I think we can all agree that such a force would not only be awesome, but would exponentially increase the element of surprise to unmatched levels. Alas, they are humans with seemingly super-human abilities to operate successfully in all environments. They are able to kick ass at SEa, in the Air, and on Land. Thus, they are SEALs, not Seals.
NASA
I actually saw this as "Nasa" written in an article by a pretty reputable newspaper recently. It's understood that most government agencies' names in acronym form are letters that stand for longer words, right? So we didn't just name this agency "Nasa," but rather the National Aeronautics and Space Administration. Then, because that's far too long to say in normal conversation, or even formal conversation, we recognized that we have enough vowels to that we could conjure up a real fake word out of the initials. Hence, "NASA." Not Nasa. Like a pet's name.
AIDS
AIDS stands for Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome. Because those letters stand for something and the word is not a clever adaptation for a brand name (e.g. "Nabisco," which actually stands for "National Biscuit Company"), those letters should be capitalized. The disease is not "Aids." "Aids" is a misspelling of a collection of helpers. "AIDs" is marginally better, but the "syndrome" is really kind of important to the whole "disease" classification and all, so it really does need to be capitalized. Otherwise it's just Acquired Immune Deficiencies and that's just not the same.
I'm okay with "Scuba" because while it used to be just an acronym for Self-Contained Underwater Breathing Apparatus, it has become perfectly fine to refer to this type of underwater diving as "scuba." It's become its own word now. Navy SEALs, NASA and AIDS have not.
And, lastly, not all store names are possessive. It is not Barnes and Noble's. It is not Kroger's. It is most definitely not Target's OR Targets. There is but one Target and it is not in possession of anything.
Boyfriend's sister gave me this for Christmas and I think no one was surprised. Well, except for me considering I most assuredly did not make all As in my English classes. Granted, some of that isn't because I don't know how to punctuate (I try to use semi-colons when I'm supposed to but sometimes I don't when I should and do when I shouldn't) but because I didn't necessarily read the book about which I had to write a paper. Trying to get through Hawthorne's one long run-on sentence known as The Scarlet Letter was akin to torture for me and Lord of the Flies lost any fun when my teacher insisted that every single thing in that book was a symbol and never just how Golding pictured the characters or the setting. I did enjoy The Great Gatsby, To Kill a Mockingbird and The Crucible but that's perhaps because they are significantly easier reads, though by no means as enthralling as Harry Potter. In eleventh grade, I also got to read In Cold Blood by Truman Capote and felt sorry for all those suckers who didn't choose it for their papers.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Friday, May 13, 2011
A Ridiculous Obsession with the Thriller Video and a Hateful Brother
When I was a kid, I loved Michael Jackson. I LOOOOOOOOVED Michael Jackson and every song I ever heard that was sung by him. I also loved Rockwell's "Somebody's Watchin Me" because it sounded like Michael Jackson. To be clear, I still love Michael Jackson, but he's not putting out as much new stuff anymore so there's not as much to get excited about. Anyway, the Thriller record was my best friend. I loved folding out the cover to see Michael with that tiger. How bad ass Michael Jackson was! I played that record all the time.
Side Note: When we were little, my cousin Amber and I used to put records on my record player and play with the speeds. Thriller and the Rescuers stories were often subjected to lightning-fast and tortoise-slow changes to their rotation speeds, all at the expense of our riotous laughter. However, this was also the one time when Thriller was a second choice to anything. What we really loved was putting Olivia Newton-John's (who is NOT related to Elton John, as I assumed as a child) "Physical." Oh man you've never seen little girls laugh harder in your life then when Olivia Newton-John sang "Physical" like a chipmunk or like a very slow deep-voiced man. If I came across the opportunity to do that again, I would laugh just as hard.
Back to the original topic.
Thriller. I loved it. One day MTV aired the full-length 14-minute version of the Thriller video, followed by "The Making of Thriller" and my parents taped it. We couldn't tape over my episode of Rainbow Brite, however, (which just so happened to be "The Mighty Monstromurk Menace" if you're interested) so somewhere there's an 80s pot of gold existing in the form of Rainbow Brite episodes immediately followed by the entire Thriller video and The Making of Thriller featurette...on BETA.
I watched that tape constantly. I learned every move of that dance, every word spoken in both the video and the "Making of" and I'm surprised I didn't wear that thing out. I watched it literally all the time. When the video ended, I would rewind it and watch it again.
Problem is, I was 2 years old when that video was released. Which means, I was watching this video relentlessly beginning at about 3-4 years old. My dreams did not hold the same admiration for the video as my awake-self did. The only nightmares I can remember having as a child were werewolf nightmares. They would chase me through the moonlit, foggy forest and I would inevitably fall on my back in a pile of leaves, just as poor Ola Ray did in the video before werewolves moved in to rip me apart. They also chased me around a warehouse one night, and I have no idea where that came from.
I would wake up from these nightmares and have to use the restroom, which was located an easy 14 miles from my bedroom in hallways that could not be lit, lest their bright lights wake the family who all slept with their doors open. I was certain, absolutely certain, that there was a werewolf waiting for me when I left the restroom and I would haul ass back to my room and jump from the doorway to my bed, trying to keep myself a fast-moving target until I got to the safety of my bed, where werewolves don't go.
One night I was lying in my room, fearful of falling asleep because I had watched Thriller that day (again) and I was just sure that werewolves were coming. As my head rested anxiously on the pillow, I heard scratching noises.
Everything on me tenses.
I'm on alert.
Then my bed moves. I move! A very small movement that lifts me up just a hair. I realize that I have heard scratching and my bed has just raised a bit. Then it raises a bit higher. Holy God there's something under my bed. I've suddenly realized that my bed is not safe after all.
If I can clench it, it's clenched.
I just know that under my bed is a werewolf who has waited. Waited for his prey to become separated from the protection of her family and be alone in the dark where no one would ever believe her should she scream that something is under her bed. This werewolf was intelligent. A mastermind of hunting, if you will. It was also a spiteful werewolf, taunting its dinner for reasons I could only assume include an increased flow of blood so that the meat would be that much more tender and juicy when it ripped me apart.
I lift again.
I feel like crying out, but don't want to let the werewolf know that he's been discovered. Maybe my parents will come save me accidentally, the werewolf's position never having to be revealed while I leap to the safety of their arms.
That's not going to happen. My parents are watching TV that they don't get to watch while the kids are up, so they're not coming upstairs. I have to see what's under there and face my death like a lady. In a Care Bears nightgown. I lean over and lift the bedskirt, intent on looking my attacker in his yellow eyes.
I am shocked to see my brother lying on his back under my bed, with his finger to his lips going "SHHHHH!" I'm shocked not because it's more surprising to see my brother than a werewolf--but, actually, yeah, that IS more surprising. My brother hates me. He doesn't like playing with me and is quite mean to me most of the time. I would fully expect to see a werewolf before I saw my brother under my bed, engaged in what could only be called "play" with his little sister.
He tells me to be quiet, because mom and dad would probably yell at him for being in my room when we're supposed to be in bed. Then he tells me that I can have some of his rock candy he got that day for not saying anything.
Hooray! I wanted the rock candy so badly! It looked like diamonds but I could eat it and it was just pure sugar. Definitely worth the increased adrenaline I was experiencing. I tell my brother I will not tell on him and thank him for the rock candy. He leaves and I lay the rock candy on my pillow while I went to the bathroom. See, I had been roused awake which means I HAD to go to the bathroom again because that has to be the very last thing I do before going to bed and I need to not do ANYTHING after getting in bed or I'll have to go again. That's still true today.
I need to leave the restroom now and dart back to my bed. I'll be fine though, because there's rock candy waiting for me and I need to hide it before Brother takes it back. I run as fast as I can back to my room and look under the bed to make sure neither werewolf nor Brother is under there. Then I go to put my rock candy away.
The dick had already stolen it back. I went to ask for it, to no avail. I still have to be quiet, though, because I'm supposed to be in bed so I can't even tell on him.
All I got out of that experience was a fleeting glimpse of stolen rock candy and having to go to the bathroom twice in a span of 20 minutes.
And more werewolf nightmares.
Side Note: When we were little, my cousin Amber and I used to put records on my record player and play with the speeds. Thriller and the Rescuers stories were often subjected to lightning-fast and tortoise-slow changes to their rotation speeds, all at the expense of our riotous laughter. However, this was also the one time when Thriller was a second choice to anything. What we really loved was putting Olivia Newton-John's (who is NOT related to Elton John, as I assumed as a child) "Physical." Oh man you've never seen little girls laugh harder in your life then when Olivia Newton-John sang "Physical" like a chipmunk or like a very slow deep-voiced man. If I came across the opportunity to do that again, I would laugh just as hard.
Back to the original topic.
Thriller. I loved it. One day MTV aired the full-length 14-minute version of the Thriller video, followed by "The Making of Thriller" and my parents taped it. We couldn't tape over my episode of Rainbow Brite, however, (which just so happened to be "The Mighty Monstromurk Menace" if you're interested) so somewhere there's an 80s pot of gold existing in the form of Rainbow Brite episodes immediately followed by the entire Thriller video and The Making of Thriller featurette...on BETA.
I watched that tape constantly. I learned every move of that dance, every word spoken in both the video and the "Making of" and I'm surprised I didn't wear that thing out. I watched it literally all the time. When the video ended, I would rewind it and watch it again.
Problem is, I was 2 years old when that video was released. Which means, I was watching this video relentlessly beginning at about 3-4 years old. My dreams did not hold the same admiration for the video as my awake-self did. The only nightmares I can remember having as a child were werewolf nightmares. They would chase me through the moonlit, foggy forest and I would inevitably fall on my back in a pile of leaves, just as poor Ola Ray did in the video before werewolves moved in to rip me apart. They also chased me around a warehouse one night, and I have no idea where that came from.
I would wake up from these nightmares and have to use the restroom, which was located an easy 14 miles from my bedroom in hallways that could not be lit, lest their bright lights wake the family who all slept with their doors open. I was certain, absolutely certain, that there was a werewolf waiting for me when I left the restroom and I would haul ass back to my room and jump from the doorway to my bed, trying to keep myself a fast-moving target until I got to the safety of my bed, where werewolves don't go.
One night I was lying in my room, fearful of falling asleep because I had watched Thriller that day (again) and I was just sure that werewolves were coming. As my head rested anxiously on the pillow, I heard scratching noises.
Everything on me tenses.
I'm on alert.
Then my bed moves. I move! A very small movement that lifts me up just a hair. I realize that I have heard scratching and my bed has just raised a bit. Then it raises a bit higher. Holy God there's something under my bed. I've suddenly realized that my bed is not safe after all.
If I can clench it, it's clenched.
I just know that under my bed is a werewolf who has waited. Waited for his prey to become separated from the protection of her family and be alone in the dark where no one would ever believe her should she scream that something is under her bed. This werewolf was intelligent. A mastermind of hunting, if you will. It was also a spiteful werewolf, taunting its dinner for reasons I could only assume include an increased flow of blood so that the meat would be that much more tender and juicy when it ripped me apart.
I lift again.
I feel like crying out, but don't want to let the werewolf know that he's been discovered. Maybe my parents will come save me accidentally, the werewolf's position never having to be revealed while I leap to the safety of their arms.
That's not going to happen. My parents are watching TV that they don't get to watch while the kids are up, so they're not coming upstairs. I have to see what's under there and face my death like a lady. In a Care Bears nightgown. I lean over and lift the bedskirt, intent on looking my attacker in his yellow eyes.
I am shocked to see my brother lying on his back under my bed, with his finger to his lips going "SHHHHH!" I'm shocked not because it's more surprising to see my brother than a werewolf--but, actually, yeah, that IS more surprising. My brother hates me. He doesn't like playing with me and is quite mean to me most of the time. I would fully expect to see a werewolf before I saw my brother under my bed, engaged in what could only be called "play" with his little sister.
He tells me to be quiet, because mom and dad would probably yell at him for being in my room when we're supposed to be in bed. Then he tells me that I can have some of his rock candy he got that day for not saying anything.
Hooray! I wanted the rock candy so badly! It looked like diamonds but I could eat it and it was just pure sugar. Definitely worth the increased adrenaline I was experiencing. I tell my brother I will not tell on him and thank him for the rock candy. He leaves and I lay the rock candy on my pillow while I went to the bathroom. See, I had been roused awake which means I HAD to go to the bathroom again because that has to be the very last thing I do before going to bed and I need to not do ANYTHING after getting in bed or I'll have to go again. That's still true today.
I need to leave the restroom now and dart back to my bed. I'll be fine though, because there's rock candy waiting for me and I need to hide it before Brother takes it back. I run as fast as I can back to my room and look under the bed to make sure neither werewolf nor Brother is under there. Then I go to put my rock candy away.
The dick had already stolen it back. I went to ask for it, to no avail. I still have to be quiet, though, because I'm supposed to be in bed so I can't even tell on him.
All I got out of that experience was a fleeting glimpse of stolen rock candy and having to go to the bathroom twice in a span of 20 minutes.
And more werewolf nightmares.
Monday, May 09, 2011
Quickie Post: Creepertons Make a Move
I've written a lot about the Creepertons. Part of that is because they are, in fact, incredibly creepy and another part is that Boyfriend and I want this whole thing to be documented should you start to notice that we're not hanging out anymore or won't answer our phones, etc.
The excessive garbage disposal use continues.
The constant running of the air conditioner continues, despite relatively cool temperatures in the 50s and low 60s at night time and highs only in the 70s during the day.
There are some new things we've noticed:
1. Mr. Creeperton has developed a recent affinity for wearing large puffy winter coats on these 70 degree days. Bright sunny skies, temperature a moderate and quite comfortable 70 degrees and Mr. Creeperton driving off with a black puffy winter coat (and sometimes shoeless, which I cannot even begin to wrap my head around). We don't understand this, especially considering that they apparently feel temperatures over 55 degrees is warm enough to necessitate the A/C running so you'd think they'd be melting when temperatures reached the 70s.
2. Bitch Creeperton took out the trash last weekend. That would sound benign enough except that she took out naught but one bag. One HUGE black trash bag. It was as large as she was and she was having quite a lot of difficulty navigating it to her vehicle. Whatever was in there was large and heavy. She had to drag it. When she went to put it in her vehicle (not a car, but not an SUV...I believe they're called "crossover" or something), it wouldn't fit through the door. So she beat it.
Repeatedly.
Bitch just started beating the crap out of this huge, heavy black trash bag to get it to fit in the vehicle. Then she drove away...
But away from our garbage Dumpster. We don't know where she dumped...whatever's in that bag, but we know it wasn't in our Dumpster at the complex.
If anything happens to us and our cats are spared (unlikely), I'd like Freaky and Velvet to go to my Mom. Just wanted to have that in writing. They eat special expensive food Mom, I'm sorry.
The excessive garbage disposal use continues.
The constant running of the air conditioner continues, despite relatively cool temperatures in the 50s and low 60s at night time and highs only in the 70s during the day.
There are some new things we've noticed:
1. Mr. Creeperton has developed a recent affinity for wearing large puffy winter coats on these 70 degree days. Bright sunny skies, temperature a moderate and quite comfortable 70 degrees and Mr. Creeperton driving off with a black puffy winter coat (and sometimes shoeless, which I cannot even begin to wrap my head around). We don't understand this, especially considering that they apparently feel temperatures over 55 degrees is warm enough to necessitate the A/C running so you'd think they'd be melting when temperatures reached the 70s.
2. Bitch Creeperton took out the trash last weekend. That would sound benign enough except that she took out naught but one bag. One HUGE black trash bag. It was as large as she was and she was having quite a lot of difficulty navigating it to her vehicle. Whatever was in there was large and heavy. She had to drag it. When she went to put it in her vehicle (not a car, but not an SUV...I believe they're called "crossover" or something), it wouldn't fit through the door. So she beat it.
Repeatedly.
Bitch just started beating the crap out of this huge, heavy black trash bag to get it to fit in the vehicle. Then she drove away...
But away from our garbage Dumpster. We don't know where she dumped...whatever's in that bag, but we know it wasn't in our Dumpster at the complex.
If anything happens to us and our cats are spared (unlikely), I'd like Freaky and Velvet to go to my Mom. Just wanted to have that in writing. They eat special expensive food Mom, I'm sorry.
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